The Zanpakutō... was no longer there.
For most, such a statement might seem incomprehensible.
But Seiya understood perfectly.
True Strike - White Brush Ichimonji.
As Hyōsube had said, it was a weapon born before Zanpakutō were ever formalized.
Even the concept of "Shikai" and "Bankai" had been devised afterward — all shaped by Hyōsube's own hands.
Its ability: to overwrite anything touched by the ink,
erasing their existence at a fundamental level,
and assigning them new names — new identities.
"It might be difficult to understand,"
"But don't worry, Seiya. My power was never something meant to be easily grasped."
"Rest assured."
"Your Zanpakutō is not dead — it's simply been transformed."
"Now, it floats around you, part of the air itself — a thing utterly alien to you."
"Perhaps your blade still calls out your name…"
"But you will never hear it again."
Because—
"How could a human ever hope to understand the whisper of the passing wind?"
Just as summer insects cannot comprehend winter's ice,
Seiya, too, had been severed from his power.
Under the touch of White Brush Ichimonji,
he had completely lost any ability to resist.
It was a crushing, overwhelming dominion at the level of divine authority.
From ancient times to the distant future—
only a being like Yhwach, the Son of the Soul King and the Destroyer, could overturn such fate.
Seiya…
Though brilliant—
Though strong—
Was still a creature bound to the Three Worlds.
"How pitiful."
His reiatsu was depleted.
His body broken.
"Even a genius cannot escape the shackles of this world."
He had defeated the Gotei 13, slain the Four Divine Generals—
and yet...
"You must feel sorrow, regret, helplessness."
"But even these emotions shall end here."
Even after giving everything—
This was the end.
"But your noble yet tragic will was not meaningless."
Splat—
A cold, wet sensation splattered against Seiya's body,
his breathing tightening instinctively.
The ink of Ichimonji—
Without strength left to resist,
Seiya could only "helplessly" watch himself be soaked in blackness.
Covered head to toe—
wrapped in cold, sticky darkness.
Even after desperately resisting, trying to preserve his abilities,
Seiya was now utterly powerless.
His senses.
His body.
Even his soul—
All submerged into that oppressive black.
Slowly,
inevitably—
He became like stone.
Breath slowing.
Life draining.
"To dye everything black."
"To strip everything away."
"To remake it anew."
"This is the duty of the Royal Guard."
"Feel every moment of your fading existence, Seiya Arima."
"This punishment is your fate."
"Seiya, I shall now give you a new name."
"Oh… sorry,"
"Though I suppose you can't hear a word anymore."
Whether you were grateful—
or filled with hatred—
none of it mattered.
This was your end.
The conclusion of your rebellion.
Hyōsube's hair and beard, pure white,
his solemn face glowing with almost divine majesty.
He raised his brush.
Breathing deeply,
he wrote.
Two gleaming white characters shot forth,
branding themselves onto Seiya's body like a bullet:
"Sinner"
"You bear the crime of harming the Soul Society."
"You bear the crime of disrupting Hueco Mundo's balance."
"You bear the crime of disturbing the Soul King's slumber."
Such a disgraceful existence—
Only by engraving this label upon you could your sins be made clear.
"I will strip away all your power."
"You will return to the level of an ordinary soul."
"From now on—"
"You will no longer be a Shinigami."
"You will become a weak, fragile spirit, fading by your own decay."
"You will hunger, fatigue, and suffer human emotions again."
"But you will never again live as a normal person."
"Burdened by your sins, you will exist only to repent."
He would not grant Seiya the mercy of death.
No—
He would condemn him to fall into the mortal dust.
To drown endlessly in his past regrets.
Thus—
Was his punishment.
Clap!
As Hyōsube clasped his hands together,
his surrounding reiatsu erupted, scattering outward.
The pure white of his hair faded—
Turning black once more.
His blood-red eyes reappeared, cold and detached,
as if observing the cycle of birth and death itself.
Hyōsube bowed lightly toward Seiya's motionless body,
watching the black sand-like particles scatter from him.
"Return to where you belong, sinner."
Losing the bundle of spirit particles that kept him aloft,
Seiya — no, the Sinner — fell.
Plunging down,
piercing through the sky of the Soul King's Palace.
He should have fallen to the Rin'oden—
Yet somehow, fate twisted.
He fell even deeper.
Down, down—
Toward the Soul Society itself.
Hyōsube's expression grew pensive as he watched him vanish.
Turning silently,
he gazed into the distance.
"Lord Soul King..."
"If this is your will, then this humble monk shall obey."
"Faithfully, unto the end."
Meanwhile, below—
After the fierce battle where Seiya and Aizen had fought and fled the Soul Society—
an hour had passed.
Though relatively short,
for the wounded and weary Shinigami,
it felt like an eternity.
The Gotei 13 was hard at work cleaning up the battlefield.
"Gather the wounded! Make sure no one is left behind!"
The voice of Matsumoto Rangiku, Lieutenant of the 10th Division, rang out.
Despite her usually carefree demeanor,
she proved herself shockingly competent in times of need.
Organizing, managing—
everything ran smoothly under her orders.
"Thank you so much, Lieutenant Matsumoto!"
Isane bowed deeply, sweat dripping from her brow.
"Ahaha~ It's nothing!"
"We're all comrades, after all!"
Matsumoto grinned broadly, scanning the ravaged surroundings with a sigh.
"Even though we technically won, the number of casualties is staggering..."
Hueco Mundo's forces were repelled,
but at great cost.
And without Captain-Commander Yamamoto himself…
Even more severe than the physical damage—
was the psychological toll.
"It's going to be hard to rebuild morale..."
Matsumoto muttered, massaging her temples.
Yamamoto's fall—
a pillar of Soul Society collapsing before everyone's eyes—
had devastated their hearts.
"I can already imagine the flood of resignation letters..."
Shinigami were, after all, soldiers.
They could be replaced.
But the spirit of the Gotei 13—
that was much harder to heal.
"Still, it's not all bad,"
Matsumoto said, trying to lighten the mood.
"I think I got stronger too!"
High-intensity battles
refined warriors better than peace ever could.
Just then—
"Everyone… is everyone okay?"
Kira Izuru appeared, dragging a wounded comrade.
Isane rushed to help,
Hinamori following quickly.
"Thank goodness..."
"We all barely survived..."
Kira smiled bleakly.
Despite still being under a cloud of suspicion from the Aizen incident,
he stood tall, determined to fulfill his duties as the 3rd Division's Lieutenant.
Even as rumors and mistrust swirled around him,
he endured.
Everyone quietly admired him.
They wanted to lift the mood—
but then—
Matsumoto caught sight of something.
Her words caught in her throat.
"Eh…?"
She stumbled forward a step, staring at the sky.
"What... is that?"
Above them—
The sky was ripped open.
Something—
something burning like a meteor—
was falling toward them.
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Powerstones?
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